Introducing Leto and Zeus
by DonJuana19
Summary: With one out of two parental blessings attained, Lynette tries to convince Enjolras to let her meet his. But a terrible history with his father could make things go horribly amiss... for what happens when Apollo and Zeus go head to head? Sequel to "Trials and..." I'm finally back in order. Part of the "Passion for Patria" series. Enj/OC
1. Chapter 1

**DS/E 3: Introducing Madame and Monsieur Enjolras… Sr.**** A week after they've made up and settled back in, Lynette remembers something she'd been intent on doing since the day they'd gone to visit **_**her **_**family—encountering his. But will the revelation of Enjolras's past transform her determination in meeting Madame and Monsieur Enjolras Senior? **

"No."

"Why not?"

Enjolras sighed, closing his eyes for a moment in exasperation. This debate had begun before their little dispute of a few weeks former had even taken place, and he'd been hoping that the callous events they'd just undergone and recovered from would make her forget all about it. But no, it seemed as if Lynette had all but read his mind and once again become obsessed with the idea of meeting his parents. He had to admit; it was rather unfair that he had not rested until she'd agreed to take him to _her_ family and was now refusing her the same right, but she just _couldn't_ meet his mother and father. They were part of a past he'd left behind him many years ago.

He turned and walked over to her place in the bedroom doorway, looking down at her with a raised brow. "It's too far."

She stared back at him with an equally fervent glint of challenge in her lovely eyes, saying, "A rejoinder other than 'no'? I consider this progress. Well fine then, good Monsieur; humor me. How far is it?"

"They live in Saint-Saëns, Lynette."

"That's but a day by carriage!"

"But have we a carriage?"

"Have we not the money to rent one?"

He huffed, shaking his head. "No, Netta."

"Is that a no to the extent of our income, or to the notion of the trip?"

"It is a _no _to both!"

Lynette looked at him with a furrowed pout, crossing her arms irritably. "That's hardly fair, you know."

Enjolras pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes and letting out a loud exhale. "Mon dieu; don't try this again."

She raised an eyebrow accusingly, though she couldn't hide the elated look in her eyes as they probed him meticulously. "Why? Because you know it's true?" she inquired innocently, biting back a victorious grin. Enjolras glared at her, unwilling to let her gain any footholds in this attempt to guilt him into submission. "No." he reiterated defensively, trying to make his tone as stern and adamant as possible.

But she shifted her arms akimbo and smiled sassily in response—for somehow she was _always_ able to culminate a debate with one obstinate word yet never fell for the tactic herself, much to Enjolras's irritation. "Even _you _know you're lying to yourself… it resounds in your voice," she stated evenly. Enjolras glowered tersely—standing resiliently, but also knowing that she was probably right. For he knew deep down that this was rather unreasonable of him… but he'd be damned if he admitted that fact.

"I am _not_," he answered curtly.

"You are _too_," she shot right back, a chuckle forming in her words. He snorted, rolling his eyes. "Quite the childish answer," he affirmed, watching her with raised brow as she got up and walked towards him. She mimicked his inquisitive expression, inching closer and closer; all the while smothering him with the gaze she'd quickly learned made his will waver… if only for a moment. "As is 'I am _not_'," she retorted matter-of-factly.

"Well you can mock me all you want; that isn't going to change my answer," he resumed, reverting them back to their original topic of debate. She scowled up at him. "Fine then. I'll just go myself."

"You know not how to get there.'

"I'll find an address."

"How do you plan to do that when I won't tell you?"

"I'll find someone who will."

"Who else knows the whereabouts of my parents besides their only son?"

"Marius?"

"He knows nothing of my family life."

She huffed in exasperation, eyes flashing irritably. "I just don't understand why you're so adverse to this idea! I simply want to meet the people who raised you as you did mine!"

Enjolras opened his mouth to respond just as briskly, but then stopped, his words hanging in a state of unspoken anticipation from his open mouth. He wasn't going to be able to argue his point much longer. Or, at least not the same way he _had _been going about it. He would have to tell her the truth… perhaps then—once she was better informed—she'd be willing to let these crazy notions of hers burn out and be forgotten.

"Alright; if you really _must _know, it sounds like it's time for me to start confessing. Well, the truth is that I have not spoken to my parents in years," he admitted; eyes darting to the floor darkly as it all came flooding back. He was surprised to hear her laugh; and looked up to see her shaking her head at him with a tickled smile on her face. He couldn't help but stiffen slightly. What about that was funny?

"That's all? Perhaps you should not have spoken after all, Blondinette; for now I have the basis to remind you that I too walked out on my family and experienced a lack of communication as a res—" she started as if reading his thoughts. But he was quick to cut her off. "But I did not _just _move out, Lynette. I packed my things and left with a barely civil goodbye before completely severing all contact between us," he elucidated gravely. Her jesting mien disappeared, leaving in its place an equally somber guise to match his melancholy tone. "I still cannot help drawing some similarities, cher," she began, "though because of that fact I now know that this is no joking matter."

"I admit that they are similar; but it's just… well, while you have disputed with your family but still drop in every now and again, I quite literally have not seen or spoken to either of my parents in almost ten years," he sighed. She looked up at him sadly; mouth ajar in a silent 'o'. She was silent for a moment, to his surprise—he'd thought she'd surely continue pointing out the parallels between her family life and his. But instead, she simply whispered, "Why?"

Now it was Enjolras's turn to fall silent. Faint reminiscences flickered to life in his head… and he was a bit stunned by the vividness to which they danced through his thoughts. It had nearly been a decade, after all. Shouldn't they have faded into a hell of a lot more obscurity than these clear pictures he was getting?

"Enjolras? Please tell me what happened," she murmured, her voice smooth and pleading and intoxicating as a siren's hymn. He let out a voluble exhale, unable to keep himself from caving in any longer. "Well, as I've told you before, my opinions began to form at a very young age. I was a very bright and eager child; and my parents were delighted by that fact when it began to become apparent. So, they began advancing my lessons more and more until I was up to five years ahead of my level of schooling in some subjects. One of these particular subjects included history. My tutor was a very intelligent man with an even quicker tongue. He told the world's stories with the vivacity and passion of one who had actually lived through it, and that never ceased to enthrall me. But before long I started to notice strange feelings stirring inside me whilst I listened to his factual tales... sentiments of anger and sadness and conflict. And soon I realized that these feelings only seemed to show up when the event I was learning about had something to do with injustice... even if the event was something France had been involved in. At first, this notion troubled me; for my father was aristocratic but had also always taken great pride in what he called the 'achievements of France'... which basically consisted of all of our country's little victories and advancements from over the years. But, mind you, that included the conquests or triumphs where what was being done was completely and morally wrong."

"So, I went to him to speak of my newborn feelings of controversy. But when I did, he brushed it off like it was nothing; telling me that I was simply going through the changes of manhood and was bound to be a bit disoriented as consequence. And for the longest time, I believed him. But that didn't mean that I held my tongue when speaking on these matters. It wasn't long at all before I got over my original timidity at these new, unruly ideas and began openly crossing my father's philosophies whenever I disagreed with them. At first my parents seemed to find it rather endearing; always chuckling amusedly before "correcting" my statement. But soon my constant rebuttals began to wear down their smiles, and my father stopped chuckling altogether as he realized I was completely serious about my beliefs."

"At one point—on a day I'd been particularly stubborn in one of our many debates—he called me into his office and sat me down before him. He told me that he was extremely displeased with the way I was, as he called it, 'defying him' by means of my frivolous notions. He said that it made no sense that I felt the way I did, as the régime had done many wonderful things to benefit all its citizens. But then he made the mistake of saying, 'Just look at us! We have a large estate, a lovely and contemporary home, and the clothes on our backs are comfortable, resilient, and highly fashionable. Do you think we would have any of these things if _not _for the subsidies those officials have provided us with?' and I snapped. I stood up so that I towered over him in his desk and bellowed that while we lived in luxury and comfort, there were children starving to death on the street while their parents turned to corruption in order to pay for them. That while we worried about fashion and style, some lose limbs to the curse of frostbite and disease. That while we never saw a grey day, some were suffering in misery; and _all because of the damned hierarchy we live in._ And he said not a word more after that, so I simply stormed out in ire and locked myself in my room for the rest of the day."

"So he sent you away? Just for having an opinion?" Lynette asked; eyes flashing and voice trembling indignantly.

"Well, not exactly. That is in the end the reason for my leaving, but I am not banished _just _yet," he replied; and he was not even able to chuckle as his rage bubbled up inside him from the depths of his memories. But he took a deep breath and swallowed it down, continuing, "He would not speak to me for several days straight, but my mother—fragile as she was—just pretended that the whole incident had never happened and he managed to forgive me for her sake. They tried to forget… but I sure as hell couldn't. I began looking into the different institutes of higher education around us, both in yearning for more knowledge of the world and in desperateness to get out of this house of injustice and greed. I tactfully waited a few months before confronting my parents about it, and to my relief, my strategy worked and they did not even _think _of the possibility that it was a method of escape. They were both very enthusiastic towards the idea, though my mother was not ready to see her son leave them just yet and insisted I wait a few more years. So, in silent reluctance I agreed; also consenting to letting my father help me find the best seminary for my needs. But that also meant that we were spending more time together… and _that _meant that we clashed more than ever."

"But it wasn't until I had just turned seventeen that any of our arguments did any real, instantaneous damage. Yes, they made me see the pretension of my own father and that fact diminished his esteem in my eyes, but until that point, we never really spoke of our displeasure of the other. But one night my father came in, ranting irritably about how he'd been late to a seminar that afternoon because 'some useless prat' had started a rally in the street. He went on to describe how traitorous his words were and how lowly and unkempt the people following him looked, then began to _laugh _as he expressed how they had gotten a bit too rowdy and a squadron of officers stepped in, resorting to violence to scatter them. 'The man didn't look so mighty once he was cowering like a dog!' he'd roared." Enjolras seethed, stopping for a moment to attempt to calm himself.

Lynette studied his face carefully; gaze sweeping over his burningly intensified eyes and scowl-furrowed brow. She nearly laughed—and would have had she not been so angry—for even when his face was etched with indignation he was so, utterly handsome. Oh yes, he'd always been a fearsome thing to behold when he was angry. Looking so angelic that you could hardly believe he could harbor wrath, and yet there he'd stand: practically spitting fire and proving you wholly and entirely wrong.

"And then, as soon as he began chortling heartlessly at the expense of this poor radical, I let all of the thoughts that had been building up over the years burst forth in one vast, furious tirade. I can't even remember all I said, only that it was something along the lines of, 'Your intolerable cruelty towards those weaker than you and your unstinting support of oppression and maltreatment will be your downfall in the end, but until then I will no longer stand by silently while you pledge your support to these tyrants! Your beliefs are unjust, and until you and people like you start seeing things the _right _way, France will never truly be free!' To which he replied that I was a bloody fool if I believed that scum like that should have the same privileges as the 'sophisticated and educated' do and that if we were to speak of any downfall, it would be of France as a whole should 'the gutter rats' be allowed to take part in decision making. I was utterly stunned for a moment that such spite could come from one man in one singular, derogatory sentence. But I soon came back to my senses and erupted into a barrage of accusatory attacks, but each was met with a rebuttal so malicious, they probably could have held their own against your aunt. The dispute started out as a mere battle of the perspectives—not unlike the others we'd found ourselves in over the years—but soon enough it spiraled out of control, taking a turn for the more intimately wounding. I told him that his loathsome arrogance and conceit had brought the violent destruction of his sympathy and overall humanity, and he told me that I was a waste of intellectual talent. I spat that his greed was the world's curse, and he retorted that 'radicals' like me were the _true _filth of the earth. And finally, after we'd been at each other's throats for at least a quarter of an hour, he struck me across the face before looking me in the eye and growling, "This is an absolute outrage! In these moments, you have turned my thoughts towards that of, 'This boy is no more my son than I am his father.'" But as soon as he had my mother rushed in sobbing and demanded that he take it back. But his eyes never left me, and mine never him. It was as if our perpetually raging war was even still going on in complete and utter silence; severing whatever slight bond we may have had left completely."

"The very next day I announced that I would be leaving for the university as soon as could be arranged. My mother was devastated—knowing now that it was the direct result of my father's and my conflict—but my father, on the other hand, would not even look at me. I continued on to say that I had chosen a Parisian institution with a very good reputation for fine education, and that they were generous enough to let me join their student body though I was late for admissions. My mother had listened quietly up until this moment, at which point she began to weep, declaring that Paris was 'too far!' and she 'couldn't stand!' the thought of me living there. And I am rather shamefaced to admit that I replied unnecessarily coldly, saying that my choice had been made, and that _my loving father had helped me make it_. This caused the war of the stares to start up again, but my mother seemed oblivious to it in her inconsolable hysterics. She ran to me and pulled me into her embrace, crying out that I was breaking her heart with all this talk of leaving her. That's when my father left the room, presumably disgusted with the notion of his wife blubbering over an all-but-banished son. And as soon as he'd gone, I let my guard down; apologizing to my mother and telling her I still loved her. It took quite a while, but I managed to assuage her tears; after which she sighed, told me that if this was what I wanted, she'd support me, and subsequently patted my cheek and told me to go begin packing before she went and changed her mind. I thanked her and flew through the task, vowing to bring along only the bare-minimal essentials and leave behind anything that would dub me as hypocritical to my views—anything that would make me in the least bit like my father. When I had finished and sent ahead a messenger to Paris to bring word of my eminent arrival, I went downstairs to find my parents standing in the front hall. And before I could say anything to them, my mother stepped forward and said that they had agreed to let me go only under the conditions that I allow them to purchase a flat for me and that I promise to connect with my dear old childhood friend Combeferre once I arrived in Paris. I replied evenly, saying that neither of those was in any way a problem considering Combeferre already attended the university I'd chosen. I was a bit apprehensive about the other prerequisite—since I figured that meant he would accompany me to Paris—but, as if reading my mind, he suddenly piped up for the first time saying that he would just be providing the up front payment and the address for any official documents regarding the purchase to be sent to. I was more than a little relieved to hear this, though it caused new concerns to surface in my mind as well: for it was obvious that my mother had forced him into assisting me financially, and that notion mixed with those of his opinion of me and _his _holding the deed to whatever place we bought discomfited me. But I simply shot back a curt thank you—more pointed towards my mother than him—and went into the parlor with them to sort out all remaining affairs. After that came our parting, where my mother showed enough sentiment for all three of us while my father and I were not nearly as enthusiastic. And then I was off to Paris, and all I could think in my teen-aged mindset was, "_Free at last!" _

"When I arrived I went straight to Combeferre's garret, where I asked rather spur-of-the-moment if I could stay with him for the duration until I found a place of my own. He was more than surprised, but thankfully too glad to see me to realize it. And by the time I did purchase my little flat, we'd grown so accustomed to being both classmates _and _roommates that the transition to living on my own was more difficult; though in the end I managed. Within two days of my arrival a letter arrived at the university from my mother, asking how things were going, if I needed anything, and to inform her when I got my permanent address. I replied back that everything was fine; I was staying with Combeferre, and that I'd let her know when I found a place to live. After that, other letters came almost every other day, but soon enough I just stopped answering—my last explaining that I'd found a little flat in which to settle in, but that I couldn't continue to answer her letters so regularly because that in addition to my classwork was becoming too overwhelming. She always has been a rather naïve woman, refusing to believe in anything that doesn't fit into her own little world. My little excuse was no exception; she responded to it with unconstrained conviction, and her letters became much more outspread in arrival. But after a while, they just stopped coming as more and more went unanswered as a direct result of my lack of time or patience. I figured my father had something to do with it when the influx halted completely, probably having convinced her that my lack of rejoinders stemmed from lack of sensitivity," he stopped for a moment to look up at her, but her expression was unreadable. "And the rest of the story you can guess if you have not already put two and two together," he culminated in a tone barely over a mutter.

Lynette remained completely and utterly silent, watching him prudently with the furrowed look of someone trying to make a difficult decision. Enjolras couldn't help but let hope rise up in his chest; perhaps now that she knew _why _he was so resistant to her request she would stand down—

"If your mother truly has not heard from you in nine years, I'm sure she would be more than overjoyed with a visit."

Enjolras found himself clenching his teeth in frustration. Was she really going to be so stubborn that she rudely ignored the entire story of his childhood so she would get what she wanted?

"Did you go deaf for the last ten minutes of this conversation? I'm not even considered _his _son anymore!" he exclaimed crossly. His goaded tone did not phase her in the least; but then again, when did it ever? She simply walked over to stand before him, taking his fisted hands and lightly kissing his knuckles. The docile touch pacified him slightly, but he was not about to show her that when a visit home was in the air. _That _was how she won arguments. _That _was his weakness.

"I understand. Truly, I do. But you don't seem to understand _me,_" she began softly, eyes silently pleading him to let her finish before he retorted, "When I took you to meet my family, it ended catastrophically. But if there was one thing positive that came out of it, it's that it helped me to purge my demons, in a way. To let go of a past I'm no longer a part of and prepare myself for my future with you. So yes, the insults my aunt threw at us hurt. But in the end, it's helped me to leave all that behind. And after the things you told me today, I think you need to do the same."

Enjolras said nothing. For he was afraid that if he did, he would end up zealously agreeing to go back to the very man who had all but expelled him from his own household so many years before. And though "purging his demons" and moving on with his life—especially when she described it so resplendently—was beginning to appeal to him, he was not about to go crawling back like some heartbroken maiden to his cruel father. Why was he even weighing the option in his mind? It would bring nothing but more dander and suffering. He might as well forget his lovely fiancé had ever said it—

"Please, Enjolras. Let me help you as you helped me," she whispered, breaking off all thoughts of denial with one, beseeching look. He'd caved. Again.

"Fine. Fine, fine, _fine_. You are too charming for your own good, you know that?" he grumbled, crossing his arms in irritation… with no one but himself. Lynette beamed at him. "And don't you forget it," she winked teasingly, though her mien glowed with true contentment. "When should we set off?"

"We shall send them a letter first," Enjolras told her, foolishly hoping that perhaps if they did they could end all of this without even physically visiting, "I have a feeling they'd be as adverse to the idea of a surprise visit as I am."

Lynette's face puckered. "But we _will _still visit, yes?"

"Only if they agree to it. But don't get your hopes up too high, I wouldn't blame even my mother for coming to hate me after I've isolated myself from them all this time," he retorted.

"She will not hate you. Of that I am sure," Lynette chuckled, "Now, go and write that letter before you 'forget to'."

Enjolras's cheeks burned instantly as he nodded and walked over to his desk. He had just been considering putting off writing the letter and saying he'd 'forgotten to do it' until she forgot about it herself. She knew him too well… a blessing and a curse. He picked up the pen and began to write:

October the 14th of 1832

My dearest Mother,

But as soon as he'd finished this greeting, he stopped. What in the world do you say to someone you haven't spoken to in _years_?

Lynette say this and leaned over to lightly kiss his cheek, whispering, "I know. But she's your mother, so just pretend it's only been a few months instead of years and I'm sure it will come much easier."

He sighed, placing his hand atop hers, and turned back to the parchment.

First off, I do hope you'll forgive me for my lack of communication lately; each year that passes seems to get busier and busier than the last. Living in Paris has been a wonderful experience; it has become a home away from home in the time I've sent here. Which brings me to one of my main reasons for writing you. I'm about to begin sharing this new home of mine.

You see, early last year I met a woman. She was intelligent, kind, and full of life, and I soon fell deeply in love with her. I proposed back in August, and now we are working on the wedding preparations… but we wish to receive your blessing before we officially set the date.

I know all of this must be rather overwhelming to process given the circumstances, but I ask that you do not doubt my thorough happiness, and that you make haste in your response. We are very eager to hear from you.

Your devoted son,

Marcelin Enjolras II

No sooner had he finished signing it did Lynette sweep it right out of his hands, reading it over meticulously. A small smile ghosted her lips at what he assumed was the part about her, but that soon turned to puzzled inquiry as she culminated her reading and looked up at him. "Marcelin Enjolras?"

He nearly laughed, for he'd forgotten that he'd never told her about his real name. "I was named after my father. When I moved to Paris, I changed my name to reflect only my latter in everything but business affairs," he explained. She cocked her head, a strange look inhabiting her eyes. "So… all this time I've been calling you by your last name?" she wondered, seeming absolutely mystified with the thought. He rubbed her arms assuringly. "No, you've been calling me by my first name. Perhaps not in law, but in all ways that actually _matter_. 'Marcelin' is nothing but a bad memory to me now."

She smiled at him, looking him in the eyes. "I do rather like it, though. It's a lovely name," she told him tenderly. He shot an unenthusiastic grin back. "Perhaps, but it's also my _father's _lovely name. So I'd prefer you to still call me Enjolras, if you don't mind."

"I can understand that. I've never liked those 'the Second' or 'the Fourth' titles. I feel like it indirectly labels them as not being their own person," she said perceptively. He grinned and wrapped his arms fully around her. "Exactly. I love you," he chuckled. She beamed at him. "I love you too. I must confess, though… I may still call you Marcelin from time to time."

His face fell slightly. "Why?"

"To remind you that not only are you not him, but that he doesn't own that name anymore… you do. He gave it up when he passed it down to you. So if anyone should be obliterating that part of their name… it's him," she finished fervently. Enjolras was stunned into silence, too amazed to do anything but stare down at her in veneration. And then—abruptly and with the urgings of none but those sentiments—he pulled her into a passionate kiss, silently expressing to her his gratitude. And she appeared to have gotten the message, as she was giggling by the time he pulled away. "Don't act so surprised. It's true, after all," she appended.

"Just… thank you. You are awe-striking," he breathed in response.

Her cheeks became lightly colored at his avid words, but she simply squeezed his hand with a gracious smile before turning towards the door. "Now, what do you say we go find a messenger?" she suggested. He sighed, all of the day's occurrences before his mind had gone blank at her words coming rushing back at once. "Yes, I suppose we should."

She saw the expression of melancholy on his face and smiled encouragingly at him, saying, "Don't look so defeated. She's the woman who raised you, not an evil sorceress."

"But my father is a different story," he grimaced.

**A/N:**** Ok, guys; I just looked at my trafficking stats… and wow. I can't even… Wow. I don't know whether it was the release of the movie (*cough cough*AKA THE GREATEST THING EVER CREATED ON THIS EARTH) or what, but I have never seen such a high number of hits. Thank you, thank you, thank you… I am so blessed to have such wonderful readers. **

**Not to mention all the story/author favorites I've been getting… to all my new readers, thank you SO much and welcome aboard! :)**

**Anywhooooo, after I saw this month's report (and gotten out of my ten minute state of frozen shock, mind you) I decided it was more than time to release the next DS/E… so here you go! Merci beaucoup and I hope you enjoy! ~DonJuana**


	2. Chapter 2

October the 16th of 1832

My Beloved Son,

Oh, you have no notion of how my old heart leapt when I saw even just the envelope of your letter! For I know your handwriting better than I know my own… and I thought to myself, "My God; that's my Marcelin's handwriting! He's written at last!" How my hands were shaking when I opened it!

And such wonderful news I read! Oh, my baby boy is engaged, experiencing love at its finest at long last! I read through your letter several times in the sheer joy those words brought me, and then I read it once again to your dear father! Oh, how happy we both are for you, ma coeur!

And as for receiving our blessing, I beg that you bring her here to the estate, and as soon as possible! I'm dying to meet her; I'm sure she's the world's most wonderful creature if she got _you_ to propose. Besides, it's been years since your last visit; it's about time you finally returned to the home of your childhood! We miss you so terribly!

We'll be expecting you within the next few days; do not waste even a moment in preparing to leave!

Mother loves you so,

Sylvie Enjolras

Two days. Perhaps even a day and a half. That _had _to be some sort of record.

Enjolras stared at his mother's frantic scrawl for a good five minutes, thoughts buzzing furiously about his head to the point of physically discomforting him. 'We're _so happy for you? _We _miss you terribly? There is no 'we' about any of those things. I wouldn't be surprised if he _burned_ my letter as soon as her back was turned,' _he thought bitterly, '_But that would make it all the easier for me, I suppose.' _

He'd been right all along. This had been a mistake. He should never have let himself give in to Lynette's beseeching. He was lucky that she had gone out to restock their food supply, as he could now just throw the letter out and pretend his parents had never bothered responding.

He crumpled it in his fist decidedly. As soon as it was gone, they could just forget this whole incident had ever happened and move on with their lives… she'd be disappointed, but there was no doubt in his mind she'd be quick to get over it. After all, what was more important to her? Him, or his parents? Him, of course. So he had every right to do this. Besides, she didn't know what she was asking when she implored to meet them… he did! He was saving her, in a way… he was doing the right thing…

'_Then _do it_, Enjolras. She doesn't have to know…' _his common sense hissed.

But the thought of lying to her again made both his hand and the parchment crushed inside of it tremble. Flashes of the days after she'd walked out on him played back through his mind; the drunken haze and pain in her eyes haunting him perpetually. It made him think twice about his plans… the very ones he'd been so sure about but moments earlier—

"Enjolras? Give me a hand with this?"

And there went his chance. Just his luck; in the short time he'd hesitated, she'd returned. He sighed, keeping his fist closed, and walked over to get the door for her. Perhaps it was the best after all…

'_No! This whole visit is _asking _for disaster! Just keep your mouth shut…' _common sense screamed much more. And though part of him felt like a child bursting with guilt—ready at any given moment to gush forth a flood of truths—he kept his fist firmly closed. "Of course, love," he murmured casually as he began to take the bags out of her hands. But right as her mouth opened to utter a thank you, her eyes fell upon his hands and probed his sealed fist curiously. "What have you got there?" she inquired.

"Nothing, what do you mean by that?" he answered, cursing his voice for speeding up considerably. But she didn't seem to notice…

Or so he thought.

"Of course… do forgive me. The letter aughtn't be back for ages. How silly of me. Now, can you brings these into the kitchen, please?" she requested with a dazzling smile, handing the last of the bags to him. He nodded, trying to hide his relief, and took them from her waiting arms. But as soon as he had, as he shifted his position to better support them, she snatched the letter right from his palm—taking full advantage of the element of surprise her feigned obliviousness had awarded her with. '_My Beloved Marcelin,'_ she drawled dramatically as soon as she'd managed to flatten out the note, '_You really must stop trying to fool your poor fiancé; she knows you much too well and _always_ sees right through you.' _

"Gah! Give it here, Netta!" he exclaimed, nearly dropping the foodstuffs he held in his unexpecting astonishment. He started toward her, but she simply thrust out a finger, stopping him in his tracks. He lifted his gaze to meet her accusatory expression, but instead of anger, he found amused triumph dwelling there. She'd won, and they both knew it. For even if he managed to reclaim the letter, there was no force on earth that could beget her to disremember it.

He plopped himself down in an armchair, crossing his arms like a child as he tetchily watched her read the rest of his mother's message. He saw her face light up contentedly as she neared the end, and he had to stifle a groan as it did. Because if she was smiling, that meant she'd read of his mother's open invitation for them to come to the estate to be properly introduced. And if she'd received the invitation—

"Well; let's begin packing, shall we? They're 'expecting us within the next few days'," she announced, handing the crumpled epistle back to him. He took it and shoved it in his shirt pocket. "I'm having trouble seeing the urgency of this situation. You said it yourself, they're expecting us within a _few days_. Which means we can spend a few sorting all of this out, and a few more packing. We don't have to toss everything in a few bags and embark as soon as we possibly can."

But Lynette just smiled at him as a mother does her pouting child: with a sort of loving pity. "Enjolras, darling," she purred softly, "why are you fighting this so bellicosely? I'm not going to give in; I'm convinced—though you don't seem to realize this yet—that this is what's best for you."

"Best for me, or for you?" he glowered sharply, his tone and the words themselves turning the query into a very audacious and potentially perilous rejoinder. He saw her jaw tense slightly, but her expression remained more or less unchanged in its absolute composure. He could have laughed were it not for the current manner of the situation; it was amazing how much her self-control had improved in these past few months of living with him. She had gone from being a dangerously sensitive explosive which detonated with even the slightest provocation to someone more like a flame: in order for it to grow and consume in its white-hot ire, it must first be fanned recurrently.

"For you, Enjolras, to leave your past behind. We had this conversation. _Surely _it has not slipped your mind just yet," she answered with an eerie amount of control in her voice. He huffed, though, once again, he was beginning to lose his grip on this feeble attempt at a resistance. "It has not. But I continue to fight because you, having never met them, cannot even begin to grasp their characters— the entirety of my father's cruelty. Have you even _tried _to see it through my eyes... the possibility that perhaps it is _I _who is thinking of _your _welfare?"

She seemed to stop and consider that for a moment, but he didn't dare get his hopes about her changing her mind again. It was a good thing, too, as the very next thing she said was, "And while I appreciate your concern, you know better than anyone that I am rather well versed in matters such as these; I'm perfectly capable of defending myself, if the need arises."

The day she'd brought him home to meet her own family instantly came to his mind, and he couldn't help but wince as some of her aunt's slanders played back through his head. Lynette's responses were, with all things considered, just as biting and twice as sensible, but he'd never be able to forget the way her face has crumbled as soon as they'd stepped outside. And he'd never be able to forgive himself if she wore it again at the hands of his father.

"I'm well aware of that, Netta. I just don't _want _you to have to," he sighed pleadingly. She smiled sadly, walking over and kissing him gently. "Thank you. Really. The fact that you're so worried about me makes my heart swell with warmth. But I know I can handle this, even if he is still as ill-tempered as you described. And I want to meet them... her, especially. After all; are we not the two women in your life who love you most?"

It was always those damn kisses... though he could barely bring himself to call them 'damned' when they brought him such blissful inner peace. But they never did fail to bring down his walls in moments such as this; transform his mood from furious rage to cheerful tranquility with one touch. Had it not been but a few months since he had scoffed at Marius for the way his infatuation for his mystery girl controlled him completely? And now who was the one practically on his knees?

"I suppose so..." he mumbled after a while, placing his forehead against hers. She grinned and kissed him once more. "Good. Then let me ask again; we shall begin packing, yes?"

"Can't that wait... just a few more minutes, at the very least?" he questioned impishly, reaching up to stroke her cheek. But she saw what he was doing immediately and spun out of his grasp, sauntering halfway across the room in a few, graceful strides. "I don't think so... deferment can become a terribly enslaving habit if you chose to do it often, love."

He exhaled in a hiss and walked over to a sleek, mahogany chest which had always blended perfectly into the orderly background of the room in its permanent residence beneath the table. He doubt Netta had ever noticed it; _he'd _forgotten about it until now, for God's sakes. But now it appeared that it was to make yet another journey after all... as he seemed to have talked himself into a visit home.

**A/N****: Hello, my darling readers! I was very pleasantly surprised with several new followers and reviewers on my last chapter... thank you all, and I hope you're continuing to enjoy reading as much as I am writing! **

**Sorry I missed my Sunday update: with another production in the works, finals looming overhead, and just getting out of the holiday season, I've been at a bit of a loss for spare time. I was sick all day today, and while with most people that would be an absolute bummer... I like to look on the bright side of things. "Hey, I can update today!" **

**Anyone find Madame Enjolras's letter to be overly perky? Yes? Good. It's just the way she rolls, people. More of that to come. **

**Anyone who reviews gets to know what's in Enjolras's secret mahogany chest! :D ~DonJuana**


	3. Chapter 3

With the combined factors of Lynette's persistence and Enjolras's reluctance to fight it anymore, they were packed and ready to leave by the time the sun had set. They managed to find available transportation despite the fact that all of this was so last minute, and ordered it for the next morning—or, to be exact, _Lynette _ordered it while Enjolras stood by silently in a brooding sulk—before turning in for the evening.

The nightmares never left him. Every night they visited him with saturnine visions of corpses lying on a wooden castle... fallen angels strewn—cold and bloody—on the skeleton of a long dead dream. He hadn't told Lynette how vividly and frequently they haunted him; he didn't want to worry her any more than he already had in his many months of healing after that fatal night. He had not had one night of respite since the day the barricade fell, and luckily for him there had only been a handful of occasions where he'd woken Lynette up with his slumbering struggles... but this mostly stemmed from the fact that most times he snapped awake, choking with fear and sorrow—paralyzed and hardly breathing. And that night was no exception, apart from the fact that his father also made a cameo as the Army General.

Needless to say, he did not get much sleep.

When Lynette woke, he simply pretended he too had just gotten up, though it had actually been several hours since he'd been in bed. She had been somewhat gratified when she saw him up and about; apparently the only thing she had been concerned about was what she would do if he refused to get up—being unable to drag him with his being so robust. He couldn't help but grumble when he heard this—it would not have been a bad idea, and it hadn't even crossed his mind—to which she responded with an amused, "Well, it seems I have been conjuring up retaliatory maneuvers more than you have been fabricating the expected onslaughts; I'm terribly sorry I doubted you!"

And now, a few hours later, they were loading up the last of their trunks onto the carriage and climbing inside to embark on their journey to Saint-Saëns.

Enjolras looked much like a child who had been denied cake before his supper as he sank pessimistically into the seat. Lynette was quick to notice.

"You're not climbing the scaffolding. You're visiting the people who raised you. Stop looking so dejected," she said, rolling her eyes. She didn't know why she continued in her attempts to assuage him when they all ended in nothing but fresh scowls on his part. Nothing she said was going to make him abruptly inadverse to the fact that they'd be arriving at the Enjolras estate by sundown.

"I might as well be. For my father will have my head at least once before we return to Paris; you mark my words," he responded darkly, glaring out the window as if the glass was the subject of acrimony himself. She sighed, putting her head on his shoulder. "Consider them marked," she began, "though even if he does, it will serve as nothing but a fortification to your strength."

He continued to gaze out the window, glowering silently. She huffed; her patience with his childish pretense was wearing thin. "Look; do you think it was easy for me to return home to my family—to my aunt—when you wanted to ask my mother's permission to marry me? Do you not think I too wanted to boycott silently as we walked toward the very place I'd always found myself running away from? But because I respect your judgment, and—God damn it—love you more than life itself, I put on a brave face and knocked on that door without putting up a fight. So if you trust me even half as much as I do you; you'll sit up, look me in the eyes, and tell me that I'm not going to have to face this by myself because you couldn't put up with him one last time," she finished austerely, her sea-green eyes waiting to lock with his as soon as he dared turn his head. And he did, his expression softening considerably as he wrapped his arms around her and kissed the top of her head. "God, woman..." he murmured with a chuckle, "I know you can smack something fierce, but even when not physically you know how to slap sense back into a man."

Lynette smirked triumphantly, leaning into him. "You're just realizing this now?"

"Of course not," he muttered amusedly before pressing his lips to hers. She kissed him back with a smile, and she could have sighed in relief had her lips not been otherwise occupied; it seemed he was distracted for the time being from his indignant affliction. "Oh, good..." she mumbled in between kisses, "as if you had, I might have just had to punish you."

He chuckled again; though this one sounded a bit more irresolute, as it usually did when something she said or did tested his self-will and restraint. And now she'd gone and done not just one or the other, but both simultaneously. She fought a giggle of her own.

"Do your worst, Mademoiselle... I will not be broken," he breathed in response after a moment, and she swore she could have reached out and touched the audacity coating his tone. She was surprised at the daring statement; he knew as well as she did that she never backed down from a challenge. And this was no exception... he'd openly appealed to her pride, now. And he wasn't going to get away with _that _without her giving a little reprisal in return.

"You've gone and done it now..." she whispered teasingly before kissing him once more. But soon she intensified her movements, snaking her fingers through his hair and pulling him as close as their rather confined positions would allow. He responded by mirroring her fervency, wrapping one arm around her waist and placing the other on the back of her head, pressing her completely against him. She nearly smirked; he may have the morals and control of a marble bust, but even he could not retain his composure at _all _times. But all of her smugness disappeared with a surprisingly diffident blush when she suddenly felt his tongue shyly begging entrance to her mouth. It was rather funny to her; it was something that could be considered quite scandalous for an unmarried couple, and yet he did it so with such courtesy and timidity that she couldn't help but grant him access with an inward chuckle of, '_Always the gentleman...' _

And yet as their tongues entwined and she tasted him for the very first time, she let out a very unladylike moan before tipping her head back so she could have a moment to catch her breath and recoup her dignity. But as she did, he suddenly swept her up onto his lap and began kissing her neck with a zeal he had never used before. She gasped, her eyes fluttering shut despite herself, and subconsciously extended it further so that he might more easily assail the tender skin. And the tiny, discreet submission was encouragement enough for him; he immediately burrowed his face in the crook of her neck and continued on passionately.

Lynette sat there—positively entranced—for several moments before taking his face in her hands and bringing it back up to her lips once more. The desperateness with which their mouths clung to each other could potentially—had they been bold enough to present a display of this level of intimate affection in public—make one watching think that if they stopped, by some greater force, they would both be struck dead on the spot. But thankfully, none such spectators existed and their were alone in their devotion.

Neither could tell for certain how long this went on, but after a while Enjolras pulled away with a gasp, his breathing laborious as he fought to convalesce his practicality. It didn't help matters that Lynette instantly moved to kiss his jaw, but he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and whispered, "Netta... we need to stop."

He could feel her mouth stretch into a smile as she perceived his arduous caveat, and she responded by tracing one of the veins of his neck, making him tense even farther as he battled against his desires. "And why on earth," she hissed coquettishly, "would we do that?"

It took everything in his willpower to take her face and simply look her in the eyes instead of kissing her again, but somehow he did indeed manage. "Because," he began matter-of-factly, probing her lovely, oceanic eyes with his own, smoldering brown ones, "we are on our way—at your urging, may I add—to visit my God-fearing parents... and... look at your position," he culminated, gesturing with a slight blush to her legs, which had wound themselves around his torso. She stared at them for a moment with a flush of her own, then scrambled off his lap as if something had bitten her—which, with the way things had been going, something probably had. "Mon dieu..." she muttered, staring down in discomfiture for a moment. He couldn't help but chuckle, then reached over to trace her swelled lips with his thumb. "Mon dieu is right..."

"Well, for the record, you started it," she stated suddenly.

"Now look who's acting like the child?" he smirked, "How so? Because if I remember correctly, you initiated it..."

She crossed her arms, raising an eyebrow at him. "Well you were the one who said, 'I will not be broken', aren't you? And you know me well enough that you understand that I never back down when confronted in such a way... even if indirectly!"

Enjolras laughed in spite of himself; kissing the top of her head prudently but playfully. "Indeed I do... and—I must admit— you did break me, there. Almost completely shattered my self-control. Congratulations."

Another blush crept onto her cheeks, but the most prevalent feature on her face was, of course, her triumphant grin. "I am like you in the way that my pride is unconquerable, and you must be careful when you trifle with it. So I thank you for that," she laughed. He was about to make a teasing comment about her accusation concerning his pride, but decided that they had become disheveled enough as a result of that last impish exchange and that it was probably best not to push it any farther. "Of course, ma cherie," he chuckled instead, putting his arm around her shoulders, "Now; it's probably best we both get some rest. We've got a long journey ahead of us... and an even longer visit subsequent."

**A/N: ****Ooh... things were getting steamy up in da carriage... XD But don't worry guys; both Lynette and Enjolras are pretty traditional... I wasn't about to pull a Jack'n'Rose: The Mizzie Edition. **

**Sorry this is a day late; I meant to actually get it out EARLY as a celebration of my finals being over! :( Perhaps I'll try to get the next chapter out early instead... where they finally. Arrive. At the Enjolras. Estate. *studio audience gasps***

**R&R, my lovelies! Go ahead and chastise me for my slight steaminess! I'll probably still end up writing it anyway. ;) ~DonJuana**


	4. Chapter 4

Despite having gotten such a dreadful night's sleep the evening before, Enjolras found that he could not bring himself to take his own advice and regain some of those hours as they travelled throughout the day. Instead, he busied himself with watching either the passing scenery through the window or his fiancé as she dozed curled up against his chest. And then of course the worrying—one could not simply forget about the worrying.

Lynette was his female counterpart. Of that, there was no doubt. Her mind processed the same way his did, her words reflected his technique and eloquence, and her pride and self-confidence burned as ardently as his did, with that similarly parallel attribute of lashing out to scorch whoever threatened them too frequently. These were all things his father had come to resent in him in his last few years at home, and he was terrified that he'd see the entirety with which she replicated them and treat her similarly. And if he hurt her...

His arms tightened instinctively around her slumbering body, his face darkening as he imagined what could happen; Lynette trying to hide her winces as his father hurled disparagements at her, Lynette turning toward the window as she often did when something was troubling her, Lynette fighting back with an undeniable vigor though a nearly undetectable but also undeniable anguish grew inside of her... old wounds reopening... the tender look in her eyes as she would try to convince him he hadn't been at fault, that she was the one who had made him go and therefore the only one to blame...

God, if he could have turned them back right then as those dreadful images danced through his head, he would have. But, of course, if he had and she awoke later, she would consider it an offensive advantage taken against a human weakness in the most unfair of conditions, and, more likely than not, he would receive a corrosively bitter silent treatment for several days before she grew tired of standing by without voicing her opinions and give up on the notion. But she wouldn't forgive him nearly as easily, oh no. That would take a hell of a lot more effort on his part.

Besides, they were now within minutes of their arrival; his Rubicon had been crossed.

It was strange; as he looked out the window, he intuitively recognized all of the surrounding vegetation and natural landmarks, though he could not recall how this could be possibly be if he tried. He supposed it was because he related these familiar trees with his loathsome memories of this place, memories so wholly burned into his mind that they could not, as proven the day before, be so swiftly forgotten.

And then there it was, looming in the distance... his childhood home. It rose up out of the horizon like a great whale breaching, in all its glistening glory, out of the green waters of the ocean. Though instead of majesty and awe, the sight kindled nothing but a peculiar tension in his chest. Not fear, exactly—for it did not have the same wholly paralyzing effect that fear did—but he could not call himself at ease, either. '_So mayhap not a whale,' _he was certain young Jehan would say, '_for it inspires not passionate sentiments of wonder and love of all things beautiful. But it possesses not the daunting augury of wintry mountain, either... I think I'd actually liken it to our barricade, Enjolras. An ominous obstacle, but so great are the rewards to any man who surpasses it—'_

He squeezed his eyes shut as the vision of the little poet's last stand flashed swiftly through his head; an outcome he should have anticipated but didn't even think of... it had just happened—instinctively, easy as breathing. And now, off his mind went, recalling in vivid, unadulterated detail Jean-Prouvaire's heroic death: a death worthy of the young man's own sonnets. And a young man he was... the young_est _of them... he was no more than a boy. He should have been _writing _about taking up arms, not being handed a gun to actually do so! He didn't deserve the eternal sleep he'd been damned with... _none of them had..._

...And it was entirely his fault that they were gone. Combeferre, Joly, Lesgles, Bahorel, Courfeyrac, Grantaire... each and every one of them gone because of his foolish, unquenchable belief in their tragic lost cause. And what had their loss been for? Nothing had changed.

'_Could it mean your life means _nothing _at all...' _Grantaire's haunting, somber tone resounded in the back of his mind as he recalled all of the deaths he had witnessed, and left to his hellish reveries the ones he had not... perhaps Courfeyrac had turned his back at just the wrong moment... perhaps Grantaire had been dragged out in front of the barricade, and had a bottle pressed to his head _only for the trigger to be pulled_—

"Monsieur? We have arrived," the driver's stammering voice sounded suddenly, shattering his tortured train of thought. Enjolras blinked several times, then looked out the window to see that they had indeed stopped.

Before him sat the long, narrow walkway he knew like he knew his shoe size or the back of his hand; the path that he had many a time sprinted up after a long day of play in a failing attempt to be home in time for dinner. And at the end of the path was said home: the great white whale frozen midbreach in a motionless but still menacing way.

And at the thought of this metaphor, he suddenly wanted very much to just stay in this carriage until the driver got the hint and took them away from here, for he knew as well as any that it was because of men like his father that his friends had met their ends. Rich swine whom reaped off of the weakness of the poor... he had been raised on those benefits, for God's sake! But he had learned, and that's why he had left. That's why he had _fought_—

"Monsieur? If you please... I have another client to see to today," the driver continued, and Enjolras could tell by his tone that he was growing impatient, but was far too anxious to actually say so. He sighed. "Just a minute more, good sir... I must wake my fiancé," he called back before unwinding his arms from Lynette and shaking her lightly. "Lynette? We're here, love."

Her eyelids fluttered open slowly, their oceanic occupants taking a moment to probe her surroundings before locking with his. "Hmm?" she murmured, rolling her shoulders in an attempt to fully awaken herself.

"Well you're the one who insisted we come; I should God well hope you remember!" he chuckled. And with that, her eyes snapped into their fully ajar positions. "We're here? We're here!" she reiterated, looking out the window as confirmation. He nodded curtly. "Indeed. So come on, let's get this over with."

She rolled her eyes. "Don't be so bitter; your mother won't be as used to that perpetual scowl as I am."

He feigned an insulted expression—deepening said scowl—then, looping his arm around her waist, swiftly yanked them both out the carriage door and into the dying light, whirling her around once before stopping her back at his side and kissing her forehead. "A _perpetual_ scowl is not physically possible with you around. A _frequent _one, perhaps, but not perpetual," he retorted.

"What an accolade, Monsieur l'Terrible!" she laughed, clear and birdlike in ring.

Just as he was about to swing her around again as chastisement, he heard a very familiar, high-pitched voice cry out from the general direction of the house. And even after all of these years, he didn't even need to strain his eyes through the shadowy dusk to perceive that they had been found out by his mother.

"Marcelin!" another cry sounded, and then her darkened figure began to grow bigger and bigger as she came scurrying down the path. Enjolras couldn't help it; he chuckled. His mother may have been emotional, idealistic, and at times even childish, but he knew as well as anyone that she also had a heart as large as her fortune—a heart full of love as kind and well-intentioned as her husband's was cold and parochial.

Within the minute, he felt her frail but maternally warm arms throw themselves around him, and he wrapped his own around her, hugging his mother for the first time in almost a decade.

"Oh Marcelin... my baby boy..." she murmured into his shoulder; oncoming tears trembling in her voice. He felt his cheeks redden at her gushing sobriquet; but regardless, he held her close and smiled down at her. "Hello, Mother."

She pulled away beaming and gave him a quick inspection, then jumped right into the inevitable acknowledgements of how much he'd changed since his teenaged years. "Oh my, look at how long your hair's gotten! And of course how much weight you've put on—all muscle, I have no doubt—for my God! You must be half a head taller than I, now!"

He shot her a half-smile, then swiftly attempted to veer away from the subject of how much he'd grown in ten years; as then _that _would no doubt lead to the fact that he had indeed been gone for that amount of time and most certainly questions about what he'd done _during _that time. And discussing that with his mother, and God forbid his _father, _was not what he had come here for.

"Indeed... but Mother, you're forgetting that today isn't about me, as I have not come here alone..." he grinned, looking over at Lynette. No sooner had the statement left his lips did Madame Enjolras's face light up, her gaze readjusting to meet his lovely fiance's. "That's right... good gracious that's _right_! Oh, it's an absolute delight to meet you, dear; I vowed I wouldn't believe that my son was actually _engaged _until the girl was standing right there before me... and now here you are!" she exclaimed with one of the most gleeful expressions Lynette had ever seen on a grown woman. She smiled back in warm courtesy. "And it is such a pleasure to meet you, Madame. My name is Lynette."

"Please; I will not have any formalities between us! You may call me Sylvie... or even mother, if you'd like!" she told her with a huge, sunny smile before taking her hands and patting them cordially.

Lynette's grin widened. "Thank you, Sylvie."

"And she is even prettier than you described, Marcelin... no wonder she caught your fastidious eye! Oh, what handsome children you two will make—"

"Mother!" Enjolras interjected, a great heat rising to his cheeks in his utter mortification. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lynette biting her tongue to keep from laughing, but Madame Enjolras herself didn't seem to notice the embarrassment she was causing her son.

"What? It's true! I'm going to have lovely grandchildren, because beautiful parents—which both of you are, you look very well together!—make for even more beautiful children! Though what a petite thing you are, my dear; I do hope you'll be able to _carry _a child between those tiny hips—"

"Mother. Please." Enjolras groaned, wanting to physically cover his face in his shame and discomfiture. Lynette was having an absolute field day in her head, her laughter shining riotously in her eyes. Madame Enjolras cocked her head, still naively unaware of the chagrin she had stirred. "What—oh! Of course... it's getting dark, we should be getting inside. We'll have more time to talk about this later. Come along!" she sang before turning and starting up the path again.

"Or not," Enjolras mumbled, his cheeks still burning.

The corners of Lynette's lips turned upward. "She's lovely, Enjolras. Energetic, but lovely."

"My mother is a child. Ridiculously panglossian with a mind that hops from one subject to another like a flitting bird, but always in the best of heart," he whispered back.

She smirked. "Exactly. Even when she speaks of the state of my hips and makes you go bright scarlet."

And by then it had gotten too dark for her to see his blush deepen.

**A/N:**** Hey y'all! **

***tumble weed rolls by***

**Um... ok. So let me start by apologizing. Like a lot. Like, I'd give each of you a mustached Hadley and an Aaron Tveit in his glorious red coat (OF JUSTICE) if I could. Things got really, really busy (I just finished up playing the Mother Abbess in Sound of Music), and I barely had time to SLEEP, let alone update this fic. **

**Lucky for you *cough cough the tumble weeds because I'm assuming they're the only ones still around...*, things are better now, my writer's block is gone, and I should be updating a lot more often! (I hope) Thank you for your patience, I love you all to pieces and seeing people still favoriting and following my stories even when I fail to update is what keeps me going. :)**

**Anyway, meet Sylvie Enjolras; the—as Classof1832 so wonderfully put it—"campy" mother of our dear Enjy. Perhaps she should open a camp... a camp for future rebels. Though I imagine it would end in nothing but the boys building miniature barricades out of popsicle sticks to rebel against craft time. **

**Thoughts? ;) Hit (reviews or PM's and not actually physical contact appreciated) me. ~DonJuana and her tumble weeds (OF JUSTICE)**


	5. Chapter 5

They entered the house and were immediately rushed to a door on their left; Enjolras strode in confidently though inside he was feeling rather nervous, while Lynette followed behind him with a guise of slight timidity—how a lady would be feeling, she'd decided—though in reality she was, all things considered, decently confident. They were, as always, a perfect yin and yang: what one lacked in a moment of weakness, the other was thriving in.

"Please, sit! Make yourselves at home... of course you are home, so that's not to say—"

"Thank you, Mother. We will," Enjolras cut her off, smiling and kissing her cheek.

l'Madame beamed. "Oh, of course, love! I'll go get your father... how eager he was to see you and meet Miss Lynette!" she exclaimed before scurrying back out of the room. Enjolras froze, his entire body tensing as it hit him that the man who had driven him away from the estate in the first place was now on his way to greet them. "Eager to see you my ass," he growled through grit teeth. Lynette rubbed his arm supportively. "Everything will be fine. We'll say hello, then ask to rest for a while. Alright? Just hold onto your composure until then," she assured him softly. He looked her in the eyes, taking a deep breath. "Alright, alright. I'll behave."

They sat there in silence until the silence itself was broken by the slight creaking of the parlor door and the dreaded sound of two pairs of feet shuffling in. Lynette stood, pulling Enjolras up with her.

Marcelin Enjolras Senior was a very tall, imposing figure with a belly that had obviously been swelled with age and a face that might have been handsome if it hadn't been etched with the ghosts of past scowls and disdainful expressions. His large, ring-covered hands rested stiffly beneath the lapels of his coat; a position which allowed his back to be drawn up to its straightest possible stance, his head to be held up highly in pride, and his just-barely-blue ice eyes to fall upon them in what may not have been disapproval, but looked it just the same.

Discreetly looking back and forth between them, Lynette dared to think that Enjolras was all but the spitting image of his father, apart from his mother's warm brown eyes and the fact that she had actually seen him smiling while with his elder counterpart, she could not even begin to imagine such a thing.

Abruptly, his eyes flew up to lock with Enjolras's, icy blue against burning-ember brown warring viciously, though both of their owners fought also to appear civil and unrattled by the other's presence. It was funny; in the moment their eyes met, Enjolras couldn't help remembering another man whose eyes had attacked him so similarly: the spy from the barricade so many months ago, Inspector Javert. And as soon as the man's stony, heartless, merciless face came to mind, Enjolras nearly ruined all the poise he'd built up by snorting in bitter amusement. Did all men with those grey-blue eyes of winter come to possess them from lack of empathy and a mortal soul? Or was such an accusation unfair to make when he'd only met two and gotten lucky with their cruel characters?

"Marcelin," his father's gruff voice cracked through the silence, never breaking their contradicting gazes.

"Father," Enjolras responded tautly, nodding towards the man who had raised and simultaneously ruined him.

Madame Enjolras glanced back and forth between them with a beam, blissfully unaware of the tension in the room whilst blinded by the image of her two best men at long last together again. "And look, Marcelin dear... Junior has brought his fiancé to meet us!" she exclaimed, wrapping her fingers around her husband's arm.

"I resent that title," Enjolras muttered to himself, frustrated with having lost even his name when his entered the room. Lynette heard this—despite its near inaudibility—and gravitated discreetly closer to him, brushing her shoulder against his arm in a silent act of support. He sighed quietly, relaxing slightly, but his tension returned but a second later when his father's eyes fell upon Lynette. His hawkish eyes looked her up and down, and when Lynette herself saw this she smiled prettily at him, thinking that perhaps such a warm gesture would make things easier on her future husband. Monsieur Enjolras didn't bother smiling back, but he did turn to l'Madame a moment later and said, "Well, she is pretty."

"I said the same!" Madame Enjolras gushed in reply.

"It is very nice to make your acquaintance, Monsieur Enjolras," Lynette cut in smoothly, curtsying gracefully with an air Enjolras had never seen her use before. Marcelin the Elder turned back to her, staring at her as if taking a moment to physically analyze the statement as it hung in the air. Lynette stared back with an impeccable dignity and an utmost self-confidence, and Enjolras found himself watching her in quintessential admiration and awe.

Monsieur Enjolras didn't know if he liked the way she radiated with confidence; he didn't know whether he liked the fervent look in her eyes though the rest of her face remained all but expressionless apart from a tiny, decorous smile. She'd said but one simple sentence and already bemused him, and that was something he was _certain _he didn't like. Despite this irritating notion, he dipped his portly body into a curt bow. "Likewise, Mademoiselle." He then turned to his delighted wife, asking, "Will we be having supper soon, then?"

"Oh certainly! I've made Junior's favorite—"

"Actually, we will not be joining you for dinner, mother. Our travels have tired us immensely," Enjolras interposed, forcing an apologetic smile to his mother. Her face fell slightly, but she returned his expression and had just opened her mouth to respond when l'Monsieur cut her off. "That is rather rude, Junior; rejecting your mother's dinner invitation after she has just telling you that she has cooked a meal especially for you."

"Oh no dearest, I understand completely! They must be exhausted—" Madame Enjolras began sympathetically.

"That is not how we raised you," Monsieur Enjolras continued with a sniff, ignoring his wife's understanding dismissal. Lynette saw something in Enjolras's eyes explode, and just as he was opening his mouth to tell his parental off, Lynette grabbed his arm and squeezed it, saying, "I'm actually very hungry! Enjolras and I would love to come to dinner, Madame."

Enjolras looked at her as if she'd just announced a demoralizing betrayal, but she barely had time to shoot a "_just trust me"_ look in return before Marcelin the Elder intruded disgustedly. "You let your fiancé call you by your last name?"

"I let many call me by my last name, Father, as it is the only one that I went by upon arriving in Paris," Enjolras responded, beginning to tremble in ire. Monsieur Enjolras's eyes nearly bugged out of his head, his face turning a sort of sickly purple color. Both women could now feel the anger charging up like the moment before a lightning strike—a moment when the air is alive with no energy but that of the deadliest, most terrifying sort... electrified energy that the gods breathe and mortals fear with a stupefied passion. And as much as Lynette now mirrored her other half's rage, she knew that lightning, once it had struck, did nothing but harm and devastate and burn.

"Love, why don't you give me a quick tour of the house before we sit down for dinner?" she inquired, not even waiting for his response before pulling him towards the parlor door. Enjolras simply nodded in reply, his eyes never leaving his father's; at least until the closed door had severed their eye contact. This action seemed to draw him out of his vengeful trance, and no sooner had the latch clicked shut did he turn to her, angrily opening his mouth to chastise her for her submission. She responded just as firmly, putting a finger to her lips and pointing to the so recently shut door, then took his hand and pulled him a ways down the hall before ducking into a large library on her right. She yanked him in after her, then took a deep breath and counted down four seconds, the amount of time it normally took for him to burst when he was angry—

"_Why _in God's name would you break our mutual agreement to go right up to our rooms after we had met them?" he roared, his eyes flashing in a dangerous way even the fearless Lynette knew to be afraid of. She called upon the same equanimity she'd so unstintingly utilized against his father mere moments before, answering, "Your mother did not deserve to be punished for the behavior of your father."

"Yes, but you sure as hell didn't penalize my _father _for his behavior! '_It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Monsieur Enjolras," _he snarled. Lynette started to clench her teeth, but then, remembering the last big fight they had gotten into, took a deep breath and responded softly, "Might I remind you, Enjolras, that he had not yet been rude to you when I greeted him in such a manner—"

"And then you just _had _to accept the dinner invitation after he had openly ridiculed me for declining it!"

"As I previously stated, love; that was for your mother and to keep the p—"

"Oh yes, and let's not forget your submission to him, calling me '_love'_ after he voiced his disapproval at your calling me Enjolras! _Whose side are you fighting for, Lynette?_" he hissed, his entire body shaking as agitated thoughts of her mutiny burst into bloom in his mind.

That was the straw that broke the camel's back. Lynette took a step toward him, her own eyes taking on the likeness of a brewing storm, and dictated through clenched teeth, "_Your _side, you foolish man! _Always _yours! I retained my composure and passively interacted with him because I _know _how hard this trip has been for you as it is, and that the last thing you need is for a biting comment on my part to set him off and further complicate the situation!" She understood that seeing his father had unsettled him, but the fact that he was accusing her of _betraying his trust_ when she had never once give him a _reason _for such distrust made her turn on her heel and begin storming out of the room.

Enjolras was still boiling, but no sooner did she finish her proclamation than he grasped that it was not her he was frustrated with so much as his father and himself. And as he watched her striding out, he felt immensely guilty for alleging her disloyalty, as well as swearing his heart stopped beating when he realized she was once again walking away from him because he had lashed out at her. He reached out and grabbed her arm, pulling her back to him and looking at her in sheepish apology. "Please forgive me, Netta; I know you're right. I'm sorry for snapping at you, he just..."

Lynette sighed; the irritation draining from her face with her exhale. "I know, I know. He tries your patience. I'm sorry, too; I should have been more considerate."

Enjolras looked down sheepishly. "Yes... and the way he was examining you!"

"I know. Again why I was using my best mannerisms... I think he was more frustrated with the fact that he couldn't find anything wrong with me than actually _with _me," she chuckled, winking.

He laughed. "I believe _that _to be as true as the day is long," his face fell slightly then, remembering the anger in her eyes but a moment before, "I just can't believe he managed to turn us against each other, all within the first few minutes of our arrival."

Lynette looked at him with a fervency which surprised him, taking his hands in hers and saying in a voice soft but resolute, "No. Never against. We're fighting for the same side, remember? I'm _always _on your side."

He sighed, pulling her into his arms and gently kissing the top of your head. "Thank you."

"Of course. You're not facing this by yourself," she smiled up at him, "Now, shall we to our second onerous battle: dinner?"

**A/N:**** ...ain't Marcelin Sr. just a **_**charmer**_**? Bet Lynette's starting to see why "Junior" was so adverse to the idea of visiting...**

**And... what's this? Netta/Enjy Conflict? CONFLICT?! **

**Mme Enjolras: *eye twitching slightly* IDON'TKNOWTHEMEANINGOFTHATWORD, WHAT'SCONFLICT? . .ANDSMILESMADEOFCANDY! **

**Me: O_e**

**Ok, new offer... have any questions for Les Amis? Enjolras or Lynette? 'Ponine, Marius, Cosette? Javert or Valjean? Anyone who has appeared in my stories at one point or another?**

**Well... this is the special INTERVIEW OFFER! Leave a review with an attached question for one (or more) of the characters, and I will happily pass it along to them—**

**Courfeyrac: *over my shoulder* How... some of us are sort of DEAD. **

**Me: Shh! *shoves him back* Pass it along to them, and get an answer back to you! Talk to Les Amis! Question Javert on why he's so into the Lawr! Ask Gavroche for a hug! Try and persuade Lynette and Enjolras to tell foreshadow upcoming extras for you! **

**Enjolras: You'll never break me...**

**Me: Limited time only! And just because I love you guys... and because I think this will be extremely fun. ;) ~DonJuana**


	6. Chapter 6

They entered the dining hall to see Madame and Monsieur Enjolras already seated, waiting patiently and watching them meticulously. Enjolras's eyes, of course, immediately went to his father's; but before the two could commence their attempts at burning each other with their minds, Lynette took Enjolras's arm and pulled him towards the nearest open seat, flicking him lightly in the back of his bicep to remind him to tread lightly.

But as soon as they had sat down, Monsieur Enjolras l'Aîné cleared his throat in disapproval. "_Junior_... are you really going to sit _next _to your fiancé?" he asked, drawling out 'next' as if it were the most offensive term ever voiced. Enjolras had to grip the arms of the chair he was seated in to keep from throwing his fist down on the table. "Considering she is indeed my fiancé, yes," he responded with each syllable more over articulated than the last, as if mocking his father's own tone choice.

L'Monsieur perceived this, his grip tightening around his wine glass. "Precisely why you should _not _be seated next to her! It is the farthest thing from proper—"

"I can think of _several _things _much _more improper, actually," Enjolras cut him off daringly.

Much to everyone's surprise, Monsieur Enjolras did not take offense to this challenge... instead he just smirked. "I'm sure you can," he replied coolly, his eyes flickering to Lynette for a moment. Enjolras had a few guesses as to what he was implying, and though it made him want to jolt up out of his seat all over again, he managed to rein his rage back in with his rational thinking of, "_It's probably best for Lynette to suppress your damnable pride and veer away from the subject completely," _though he could tell that she too had caught the implication, and had tensed like a crouched tiger at this attack of her honor.

"Why _is _that considered proper, anyway? Wouldn't it be more appropriate for couples to sit side by side?" he questioned through grit teeth, steering the conversation away from the impertinent topic.

"Why does that matter? It's proper by tradition, and therefore will be enforced in this house!" l'Monsieur roared, pointing an irrevocable finger towards the floor of said house.

"Why do the origins of this law of propriety matter? Why does the tradition of propriety _itself_ matter then—"

"Lynette dear, won't you come sit next to me? I'd love to be able to come to know you better over dinner," Madame Enjolras's feeble voice interrupted, a timid attempt at returning to the peace she'd convinced herself had settled over them since Enjolras's storming from the room and Lynette's subsequent calming him.

Now, Lynette could have done several things in that moment, the most obvious being going off on Monsieur Enjolras for his blatant disrespect, or refusing to move to tacitly rebel against the useless traditions he was trying to enforce. And for a weighted moment, it was as if her legs were _bound _to the chair she was seated in; she was a rebel at heart, and her radical instinct was telling her that she was not to move from this spot until someone put a bullet between her eyes.

But while she longed to give back to her fiancé's father what he'd been spitting out since they'd arrived, some other part of her untied her legs and shoved her up out of her seat, commanding her to put one foot in front of the other and make her way over to Madame Enjolras. All that remained of the insurgent was her pride, which made her absolutely astonished at her own self-control when she had been so tangibly provoked. But nevertheless, she was now seated next to Enjolras's mother, trying simultaneously to mollify _his_ shocked, almost _hurt _expression with an apologetic one of her own and convince herself that this was necessary to keep the "peace" l'Madame was so convinced existed.

He took her pleading look with a huff, sitting down once more in the seat that had once been parallel to hers, staring at his plate as if wishing to shatter it with the weight and heat of the gaze. Lynette sighed, praying he understood why she'd done it, and for a moment silence hung over the room like the menacing overcast of a storm.

Though, just as even through the thickest of clouds, a single ray of light can break free, so too did Sylvie shatter the silence with the bright carelessness of a toddler.

"Oh, my Marcelin Junior... tell us about your time in Paris, your studies, your meeting Mademoiselle Lynette! You must have so much to share after so many years..." she gushed, inclining toward her son slightly in her excitement.

Lynette had always had a knack for reading people, whether it be with body language, facial expression, or tone of voice. It was part of what made her such a good leader and public speaker; she'd simply watch carefully her audience's reactions to decide where to take her oration next. So as she glanced back and forth between Sylvie and her husband, she was not surprised to see the yang to l'Madame's yin: while Sylvie sat forward, her legs and feet pointed towards her son and her arms folded neatly on the tabletop in front of her, he was leaning back in his seat, his feet pointed slightly towards the door in a direct reflection of where he wished to divert his attention to, and his arms were folded across his chest in a silent declaration of apathy for the topic at hand. Lynette nearly smirked; if nothing else, this dinner was to be a very interesting anatomical psychology study.

Enjolras's eyes met hers then, probing them defeatedly as if to ask permission to tell their tale. She responded with a tiny, understated nod and smiled; and as soon as he had perceived it he turned back to his mother. "Well, what specifically would you like to know?"

"Everything!" she answered back immediately in gleeful zeal. Lynette chuckled, and Enjolras could not help but grin at the sound, and at the mere fact that his ever-optimistic mother had rejoined in a way usually characteristic of a small child, surprising no one in the room. So, he took a moment to think—not to mention bowdlerize—through what he was going to say next: what he _should _reveal and what was probably better left untouched. In the end, he decided that anything relating to the revolution would be a terrible thing to bring up, and besides; doing so would feel like a sort of betrayal, a dishonor, a malicious sin. Almost as if he were handing over a good friend to their most detested rival—the quintessential display of a Judas treachery. But then, he realized, he was going to have to spontaneously rewrite most of his story... most importantly—and the thing he was certain his mother was most interested in—his meeting and falling in love with Lynette. He caught her eye that moment, and saw his concerns mirrored in her own gaze, her silent consent to play along with anything he generated for their sake and the sake of the sanity that had finally graced them.

"Well, my studies were very... interesting," he managed, though every time he thought of his corrupt, boorish professors bile built up in his throat, "as you know, I studied everything from law to Latin to anatomy, though, of course, my main focus was law. In doing so in such a capricious manner I gained a wide, well-rounded aptitude of knowledge, which I was often able to apply to my life in Paris."

He was thinking, of course, of the devices he often found himself using during the meetings of Les Amis to deliver speeches and relate to his brothers-in-arms. But he bit his tongue and refrained from saying so.

Of course, despite his prudent reserve, his father still found fault in his words. "You did not focus solely on one major?" he asked reproachfully, "How then are you supposed to receive the highest, transcendent comprehension promised by such commitment?"

"Well, there came a time in those first few months when I was not entirely sure that I wanted to be a lawyer, and so to break or solidify this desire, I tried several other fields in addition to my regular studies with the help of some of the friends I made there," he responded instantly, the words flowing out like a stream of water without a single care towards the destructive deluge it could turn into—

"_Dead. All dead. Learning in the Great King's library, students no more all because of yo—"_

"Still. The professors there are the brightest in France, I'm sure they plan their lessons out very meticulously, with every minute valuable and obligatory—"

"And yet now I am qualified for a variety of different careers, instead of just one. In my opinion that is much more impressive than excelling in but one jurisdiction," Enjolras retorted sharply. Lynette knew that his indecision in his studies was a very tender subject for him, and his father's attacking it could only serve as salt on his wounds. It was time for her to step in. "What he means, Monsieur, is that he put in all of the hours the absolute education entailed to indeed be considered absolute; but in his free moments, he took on extra classes and developed a more varying, well-rounded mind in the process," she cut in, smiling graciously at the Master of the house. His hot-headed son looked extremely irritated at first, as, of course, he felt that this whole conflict was between him and his father, and only them; but a moment later, his face softened and he met her eyes gratefully, accepting the fact that his father knew exactly how to incite him, exactly where his most vulnerable and weak points were, and that he couldn't do this by himself while he was constantly being stuck in the Achilles' heel.

Monsieur mirrored his son's displeasured scowl, though his did not so quickly dissipate. He stared at this beautiful, odd young woman who had cone into his home and was now jumping into conversations as if she had been the one to start them, irate that he could not fabricate a reasonable refutation to her statement. She spoke with such grace and eloquence, yet there was an underlying, commanding ring to her tittering soprano that masked itself quite prudently behind that sweet little bow-like smile of hers. And he was absolutely taken aback at the thought, the notion that he was being artfully manipulated in his own home by his perfidious son's sly fiancé. He swiftly resolved to steer the conversation elsewhere in a desperate scramble to escape the lock of her inarguable reason.

"Yes. Of course," he managed a moment later, his tone harsh and unapologetic, "you seem to know much of Junior's life in Paris. Tell me, how did you meet?"

Lynette's smile stretched a bit wider as any silly, dreamy-eyed bride-to-be's would at the mention of her immaculate love, and the lie was effortless.

"Well, my brother also attends the university, and there was one day early last year that my mother ran into the room in an awful tizzy, saying that he had forgotten an important thesis he'd been working on for weeks, a thesis that was due that very day. I couldn't help but laugh, as my brother had always been rather star-crossed, but I assured her that I would be happy to bring him the assignment. I hurried down to the university, but as soon as I entered the courtyard I got horribly lost. Soon enough, I found myself tumbling to the ground after a certain someone had knocked me down..." she emitted a giggle, turning her gaze towards Enjolras as if to silently say, "_Your turn, make it believable." _

He was amazed by the transformation she had undergone, trading her normally so stubborn, impassioned bearing for this flowery, sigh-filled, girlish persona. In truth, it disturbed him immensely; the whole invention was _masterful_. She was hardly even herself anymore, and he prayed that he would be able to play the part just as convincingly. He grinned, and continued, "Yes, I was too busy ranting about some assignment to my friends to see you, and yet as soon as you had looked up at me from the ground I was cursing myself for not paying better attention."

"And you were stammering mercilessly as you helped me up, trying to string together an apology," Lynette laughed effortlessly.

Enjolras looked down as if blushing shyly, Lynette's story playing out so realistically that the movement was almost natural. "And I just couldn't take my eyes off of you... I believe you were wearing a soft green dress, and the reflection of the sun upon it ignited your eyes so perfectly, so astoundingly..."

She was flushing. How the hell could she make herself physically blush over a meeting that had never actually happened? "Oh Marcelin dear, you remembered! And we stood there staring at each other for a moment before I suddenly realized that your hands had not yet released mine..."

"And my embarrassment swelled further when I perceived that, though it seemed you had realized such by my reddened face, because next you said to me, 'Pardon me, Monsieur, I admit I am a bit lost and was not looking where I was going."

"The fault is mine, Mademoiselle, I should have been paying better attention to my desired path of travel," she resumed smoothly.

"And, as you looked at me curiously for a few moments more—yes, remember this, darling?—you suddenly asked, 'Forgive me, Monsieur, but are you a student here?"

"Yes, Mademoiselle. I have been for many years. Is there something I could assist you with?" her voice was low and soft and polite: an exact facsimile of what he was sure the statement would sound like if he ever found himself actually saying it.

He smiled lovingly at her, persisting, "You blushed a bit then, though at the time I couldn't even begin to wonder why; all I could think of was how lovely you were... 'Oh yes, Monsieur; as I said, I was looking for my brother and got myself quite hopelessly lost,"

"What is his name, and what courses is he taking? I know this building very well."

"Henry Beauchene, law and justice and enforcement, and introduction to the judicial system."

"And then it was your turn to blush as you inquired, 'And... what is _your _name, Mademosielle?' bashful as a lamb, how endearing it was!"

"And you told me with one of your famous smiles, making me stammer all over again as I tried to tell you mine in return."

"And yet you managed! You told me, 'I am Enj—," she stopped, correcting herself as to avoid rekindling that debate, "Marcelin Enjolras.' Then you took my hand again and bowed, kissing it lightly, and I must admit; I was enchanted by your impeccable courtesy."

"Enchanted, my love?" he asked with an impish guise.

She made herself blush again, extending the façade by bringing her hand delicately up to her pinkened cheek. "Yes, very much so. And almost all moments afterwards, from then on and forever."

There was the slightest ring of truth in her final sentence, and he couldn't help genuinely blushing himself at the realization. "Do you know, ma coeur," he added, "that I was actually leading you in circles around that institution for a while, just relishing the sound of your voice as you spoke to me? I was rather foolishly infatuated..." as he said this, his mind flashed instantly to Marius. This whimsical tale sounded like something that would happen to Cosette and him, not he and his headstrong fiancé. And yet... had he not fallen in love with her over the course of a week or so? Wasn't this story just an over-exaggerated description of how his entire life and outlook had been changed in a matter of days, all because of her?

His innate train of thought was interrupted by Lynette's clear laugh, and he realized that though he had felt like he had been checked out of the conversation for several minutes, it had hardly been a second. "Of course I did, silly man. I just didn't say so at the time because I was too busy enjoying your company!"

"Oh, it's all so gloriously romantic!" Madame Enjolras burst out in a high-pitched squeak, betraying her excitement almost as much as her elated expression did. "You two are so very much in love... it shines through your gazes from your illuminated souls! Oh, Lynette darling, I'm so glad that my Marcelin has found you..."

Lynette looked back at Enjolras, smiling tenderly. "And I him, Madame Sylvie."

"Oh, I _know! _Can't you just feel the adoration resonating from them, Monsieur Enjolras? It wholly fills the room!" she sang, and Lynette suddenly got the rather amusing image of l'Madame flitting and dancing and floating about the room, flapping her hands to and fro in the way of a child pretending to be one of Queen Titania's fairies. It was charming in its own way, and it gave birth to the most miniscule semblance of guilt in Lynette's heart. She felt as if she had just told a lie to a small child who didn't know any better, who would never suspect differently.

Enjolras, on the other hand, took an immense sense of relief from her flighty reaction, as it meant he would not have to break her heart and fragile, blithe outlook with the callous reality of his glorious cause, and the true nature of how he and Lynette had met. In the middle of a street rally, with her mocking him mercilessly as he invited her to join his rebellion. Not nearly as picturesque of an image.

"Indeed, just 'resonates'," Monsieur Enjolras reiterated, though there was something in his tone that sounded as if his voice itself were rolling its eyes. Apparently, he was not as easy to convince, or even willing to _believe, _their story as his wife was, much to the rebellious couple's dismay. But he said nothing else, just watching his wife babble on and on about their undeniable chemistry and how wonderful their life would be together. Lynette tried to focus on her future mother-in-law's ramblings, but found that she could not peel her eyes away from Monsieur Enjolras and his hard expression. He looked senselessly frustrated... his eyes being the only exception. As he looked at his wife's euphoric smile, his gaze had softened; his entire countenance had taken on a whole new air because of it. He hardly even looked the same man anymore: unrecognizable as his cruel, unforgiving mask was torn from his face in a single, vulnerable moment. He was left bare and susceptible, and through Lynette's observation of this, she swiftly realized that Monsieur Enjolras was _not _completely without feeling, let alone the soulless, unrelenting automaton they'd made him out to be... maybe even that he _wanted _to be. He had his armor chinks, his moments of weakness, and those he let all guard down for. And here, in this moment, he was as close to happy as he could get in their current milieu, simply because his Sylvie was happy.

Didn't that sound like someone else she knew? She peeked with a sort of guilt at Enjolras, who was engaging tolerantly but adoringly with his mother, feeling as though such a thought was forbidden: a terrible peccadillo for which she would certainly be punished. But she just couldn't help it; the resemblances had rattled her! She suddenly couldn't help thinking, '_Suppose Enjolras and I have a child, and suppose that child is as headstrong and quick-tempered as his or her father. Well, then suppose they get into some sort of spat, and suppose they leave, my child, in a moment of incited rebellion. That wouldn't make Marcelin a bad man or father, just a human with faults like any other who—'_

Almighty Christ, what was she doing? Marce—no, _Enjolras_, was not his father, she had said so herself not a few days ago. Not only would any child of theirs be loved beyond belief, but she should not be sitting here attempting to justify the actions of a man who had done nothing but bring suffering and vexation to the love of her life since he had been a boy. Marcelin Sr. was not Marcelin Jr. This bitter old man was not her Enjolras.

'_But oh, how easy it is to draw ties between the two—' _

But a second later he caught her eye—caught her staring—and her thoughts of comparison soared away alongside his fond sympathy. In fact, not she did not at all like the look in his eyes as he so intently watched her; it was not only cold, but possessed the look of a man who had already mentally won a battle he had not yet taken part in. The red flag shot up in her mind once more, and she recovered her caution in an instant.

"And tell me again, Junior, where you ended up living? In proximity to the university, I mean. Are you still boarding with Jules?" he asked then, uncrossing his arms and leaning forward. But the motion was nothing like his wife's, that Lynette had decrypted before. This was almost menacing, like Inspector Javert when he was questioning a most-hated criminal.

But Enjolras didn't seem to notice the ominous nature of the action, he had frozen completely. The only thing he could hear was his late best friend's name echoing in a bitterly derisive manner through his head, more painful than a mallet pounding against his skull. "_Jules. Jules. Jules. Combeferre. Dead. Killed at the hands of the National Guard, probably after crying out for _your _assistance, calling for ammunition, or that his rifle had jammed. Died needing the help of his best friend, perhaps with the most fleeting of thoughts, '_The traitor has abandoned me, after all I have done for him...'"

Lynette knew that haunted, almost wild look in his eyes all too well by now. He was drowning, losing himself in the dark, oppressive prison his mind became whenever he thought of his fallen brothers. So too did she realize that his father was still awaiting an answer, and that he would not be responding anytime soon. So, in her eagerness to divert his attentions, she smiled and said, "Oh no, Monsieur. It was only at the beginning of his Parisian life that he lived with Jules. Now we live in an apt, comfortable flat, near the Latin Quarter—"

The look on his face as corollary told her everything that was detonating into existence in his mind as soon as she had spoken, and she immediately wished that life were like one of her speeches; if she used the wrong words, she could simply scratch them out and replace them the very next moment. But she could not, and so the words hung in the air, accompanied only by the dead silence that often settles over a crowd after a hanging.

"_..._We _live in an apt, comfortable flat..." _

**A/N: ****Oh my... looks like the tension continues to grow. And I continue to leave y'all hanging on cliffs. Sorry about that, and about my lack of frequent updating. The summertime will hopefully bring more time to write, though in the meantime I'm doing the best I can. :P**

**What did you think of the "How I Met Your *****Mother***** Son" sequence? I think that it was hilariously fun to write, and that Lynette's a pretty good actress. I wonder if Odie is as good or better...**

**Shhhh... don't tell Enjolras, but he and his Pops are more alike than we originally thought. And Lynette has started to see it, or at least she **_**had **_**before her little slipup at the end here... uh oh. **

**R&R, I haven't talked to most of you in a while and would love to hear from you! Come save me from Enjolras, I think he read about the S-I-M-I-L-A-R-I-T-I-E-S over my shoulder! **

**Enjy: Um.. I can read. *le glare***

**~ (O_O) DonJuana**


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